But Achilles’s gaze had no returning gleam. “When I find her,” he said, “I tell you—I tell everybody.” His face had lightened now.
The detective laughed. “All right, Alexander! You’re game, all right!”
Achilles looked at him with puzzled eyes. “I go now,” he said. He moved away with the smooth, unhurried rhythm that bore him swiftly along.
The eyes of the two men followed him. “You’re welcome to him!” said the chief carelessly.
“I don’t feel so sure,” said the other—“He may do it yet—right under our noses. I’ve done it myself—you know.”
The chief looked at him curiously.
“I used to do it—time and again,” said the man, thoughtfully. “I couldn’t ’a’ told you—how. I’d study on a case—and study—and give it up—and then, all of a sudden—pop!—and there it was—in my head. I couldn’t have told how it got there, but it worked all right!” He lighted a cigar and threw the match from him, puffing slowly. “I’d do it now—if I could.” He was lost in thought. “There’s something in his eyes—that Greek. I’d like to be inside that black skull of his a minute.” He sauntered across the room and went out.
The eyes of the chief of police looked after him vaguely. He drew a column of figures toward him and began to add it—starting at the bottom and travelling slowly up. He was computing his revenues for the coming year.